I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on the far side, hovering by the en- trance. She's the realtor, of course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little like the great room at Escala. There's a balcony above-that must be the landing on the second foor. There's a huge freplace and a whole line of French doors opening onto the terrace.

It has an old-world charm.

"Can we look around the house?"

He blinks at me. "Sure," he shrugs, puzzled.

Miss Kelly's face lights up like Christmas when we head back in. She's delighted to take us on a tour and gives us the spiel.

The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as this main living room, there's the eat-in-no, banquet-in-kitchen with family room at- tached-Family!-a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the bas.e.m.e.nt there's a cinema-Jeez-and game room. Hmm ... what sort of games could we play in here?

Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a happy family home. It's a little shabby now, but nothing that some TLC couldn't cure.

As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnifcent main stairs to the second foor, I can hardly contain my excitement ... this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.

"Couldn't you make the existing house more ecological and self-sustaining?"

Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. "I'd have to ask Elliot. He's the expert in all this."

Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite where full height windows open onto a bal- cony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.There are fve additional bedrooms on this foor. Jeez-kids. I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding stables and a paddock. Horses! Terrifying im- ages of my few riding lessons fash through my mind, but Christian doesn't appear to be listening.

"The paddock would be where the meadow is at the moment?" I ask.

"Yes," Miss Kelly says brightly.

To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the long gra.s.s and have picnics, not for some four-legged fend of Satan to roam.

Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the Olympic pen- insula are twinkling on the far side of the Sound.

Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up with his index fnger, staring in- tently down at me.

"Lot to take in?" he asks, his expression unreadable.

I nod.

"I wanted to check you liked it before I bought it."

"The view?"

He nods.

"I love the view, and I like the house that's here."

"You do?"

I smile shyly at him. "Christian, you had me at the meadow."

His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly fsting into my hair and his mouth is on mine.

Back in the car as we head for Seattle, Christian's mood has lifted considerably.

"So you're going to buy it?" I ask.

"Yes."

"You'll put Escala on the market?"

He frowns. "Why would I do that?"

"To pay for ..." My voice trails off-of course. I fush.

He smirks at me. "Trust me, I can afford it."

"Do you like being rich?"

"Yes. Show me someone who doesn't," he says darkly.

Okay, get off that subject quickly.

"Anastasia, you're going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes," he says softly.

"Wealth isn't something I've ever aspired to, Christian." I frown.

"I know. I love that about you. But then you've never been hungry," he says simply.

His words are sobering.

"Where are we going?" I ask brightly, changing the subject.

"To celebrate." Christian relaxes.

Oh! "Celebrate what, the house?""Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role."

"Oh yes." I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.

"Where?"

"Up high at my club."

"Your club?"

"Yes. One of them."

The Mile High Club is on the seventy-sixth foor of Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian's apartment. It's very now and has the most head-spinning views over Seattle.

"Cristal, ma'am?" Christian hands me a gla.s.s of chilled champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.

"Why thank you, sir." I stress the last word firtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.

He gazes at me and his face darkens. "Are you firting with me, Miss Steele?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm sure I can think of something," he says, his voice low. "Come-our table's ready."

As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand on my elbow.

"Go and take your panties off," he whispers.

Oh? A delicious tingle runs down my spine.

"Go," he commands quietly.

Whoa, what? I blink up at him. He's not smiling-he's dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I hand him my gla.s.s of champagne, turn sharply on my heel, and head for the restroom.

s.h.i.t. What's he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly named.

The restrooms are the height of modern design-all dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I'm grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress.

I thought it appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn-I hadn't expected the evening to take this unexpected course.

I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now that we won't be spending the evening talking through all our issues and recent events ... but how can I resist him?

Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and fushed with excitement.

Issues schmissues.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it's not as if I haven't gone panty less before. My inner G.o.ddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in f.u.c.k-me shoes.

Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.

"Sit beside me," he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. "I've ordered for you. I hope you don't mind." He hands me my half-fnished gla.s.s of champagne, regarding me intently and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs slightly.

The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice. Oysters. The memory of the two of us in the private dining room at the Heathman flls my mind. We were discussing his contract. Oh boy. We've come a long way since then.

"I think you liked oysters last time you tried them." His voice is low, seductive.

"Only time I've tried them." I'm all breathy, my voice exposing me. His lips twitch with a smile.

"Oh, Miss Steele-when will you learn?" he muses.

He takes an oyster from the dish and lifts his other hand from his thigh. I finch in an- tic.i.p.ation, but he reaches for a slice of lemon.

"Learn what?" I ask. Jeez, my pulse is racing. His long, skilled fngers gently squeeze the lemon over the sh.e.l.lfsh.

"Eat," he says, holding the sh.e.l.l close to my mouth. I part my lips, and he gently places the sh.e.l.l on my bottom lip. "Tip your head back slowly," he murmurs. I do as he asks and the oyster slips down my throat. He doesn't touch me, only the sh.e.l.l.

Christian helps himself to one, then feeds me another. We continue this tortuous rou- tine until all twelve are gone. His skin never connects with mine. It's driving me crazy.

"Still like oysters?" he asks as I swallow the fnal one.

I nod, fushed, craving his touch.

"Good."

I squirm in my seat. Why is this so hot?

He puts his hand casually on his own thigh again, and I melt. Now. Please. Touch me.

My inner G.o.ddess is on her knees, naked except for her panties-begging. He runs his hand up and down his thigh, lifts it, then places it back where it was.

The waiter tops up our champagne gla.s.ses and whisks away our plates. Moments later he's back with our entree, sea ba.s.s-I don't believe it-served with asparagus, sauteed potatoes, and a hollandaise sauce.

"A favorite of yours, Mr. Grey?"

"Most defnitely, Miss Steele. Though I believe it was cod at the Heathman." His hand moves up and down his thigh. My breathing spikes, but still he doesn't touch me. It's so frustrating. I try to concentrate on our conversation.

"I seem to remember we were in a private dining room then, discussing contracts."

"Happy days," he says, smirking. "This time I hope to get to f.u.c.k you." He moves his hand to pick up his knife.

Gah!

He takes a bite out of his sea ba.s.s. He's doing this on purpose.

"Don't count on it," I mutter with a pout and he glances at me, amused. "Speaking of contracts," I add. "The NDA."

"Tear it up," he says simply.

Whoa.

"What? Really?"

"Yes."

"You're sure I'm not going to run to the Seattle Times with an expose?" I tease.He laughs and it's a wonderful sound. He looks so young.

"No. I trust you. I'm going to give you the beneft of the doubt."

Oh. I grin shyly at him. "Ditto," I breathe.

His eyes light up. "I'm very glad you're wearing a dress," he murmurs. And bam-de- sire courses through my already overheated blood.

"Why haven't you touched me, then?" I hiss.

"Missing my touch?" he asks grinning. He's amused ... the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Yes," I seethe.